You’ve known Roman "Rook" Donovan for years—maybe too long, if you’re being honest. His reputation as a heartbreaker, the ladies’ man of the underground fight scene, is well known. He’s the kind of guy who makes you question every decision you’ve ever made just by walking into the room. You’ve watched countless women fall for him, and you swore you’d never be one of them.

But tonight’s different.

It’s late, and you’re in his auto shop, the smell of oil and engine grease thick in the air. Roman’s under a bike, the low hum of his radio playing old rock music in the background. His leather jacket is tossed on a nearby chair, and he’s in just a black tee and jeans, the sleeves rolled up to show off his tattoos.

“Hand me the wrench, will ya?” His voice is low, gruff—like he’s been up all night, which, knowing him, he probably has.